Households
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: She mutters something that sounds like, "enfoiré" but he's not sure he knows what it means, nor does he really care. / Eventual Hayffie. AU! WW2 set in Germany.


**Households**

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**Summary:** In 1933, French-born, aristocratic Effie Trinket moves to a small, suburban German town next to a cynical, disillusioned WW1 veteran Haymitch Abernathy. With the second World War coming quickly around the corner, the two learn to deal with other and grow together as neighbors and friends. As Haymitch's Jewish nieces, Katniss and Prim, move into the picture, and Hitler's increasing encouragement of the persecution of "community aliens" in the Third Reich, the two battle their own personal horrors of their past and present, and somewhere down the line, find comfort in each other.

**A/N:** Ayeeee. This was supposed to be a oneshot but lol I guess not anymore :-). It's a WW2 AU of Hayffie that literally came out of nowhere. It's probably going to be a, more or less, 15 chapter-ish story, but who knows. The title comes from the song "Households" by Sleeping At Last, but listen to "The Match" by The Eastern Sea as well, as it is pretty much the inspiration for this entire story.

And here we go.

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**one.**

_1933_

Haymitch is not used to having the house next to his anything but empty, given that for years it's been haunted by the hard times and rarely do people ever look to occupy a dingy shack that's increasingly falling apart by the minute. Yet somehow it does get sold, and within a week, a daughter of immigrants who speaks fluent German with a French accent moves in with her yapping dog and her never-ending carriage of luggage she probably should have left back home. He never so much learns more than her name — Elisabeth "Effie" Trinket, apparently coming from a line of quasi-French royalty — but he infers from the Sundays spent on the porch reading the Bible and her habit of never really leaving the vicinity of her home that she's an intense Christian and she never actually works anywhere.

He's not a neighborly person, not by a long shot. While he knows just about everyone on the block, from the Jewish couple two doors down to the old man that lives by himself across the street, he barely makes an effort in civil interaction. He is the lonely man who lives by himself, a decorated war veteran living in a country who has lost so much. It's not that he hates his neighbors — they're nice people, except of course that nasty man next to the Cohens that spits on the sidewalk and let's the weeds overtake his yard — but it's just that he doesn't relate to them. Haymitch doesn't have family in town, nor does he have a girlfriend hanging off his arm at the moment. He's by himself, but he doesn't really mind.

So when a month passes and Miss Trinket ventures outside to retrieve the mail, he's quite surprised that she hasn't picked up on his desire to be alone. Before he realizes what she's doing, she's sauntering up to his house and raps the door with her knuckles and he's forced to open the door after a few minutes.

"_Grüß gött_!" she greets, her lips colored red by lipstick forming around the greeting clumsily, almost as if she's not accustomed to the sounds of the German language. She recovers, though, placing her hand on the doorsill with a giggle. "I'm very sorry about my German — I'm fluent, but it is not my native tongue."

"It's okay," he tells her, but what he wants to say is that she makes the language far too melodic than it really is. He doesn't mention the slight French accent silhouetting her words, but it's lovely and makes German sound beautiful, so it's not really a big deal. Opening the door wider, he gives a soft smile and says, "You're the new girl, yeah? The name's Haymitch Abernathy. I've seemed to forget yours, though."

"Elisabeth Trinket," she returns jovially. "But I'd like you to call me Effie." She leans in slightly to peer inside, and her eyes widen in distress when she sees his living conditions. His nostrils flare at the sudden burst of flowers that she absolutely reeks of and he steps back in recoil; fortunately or unfortunately, she mistakes this as an invitation to come in.

"Welcome to my home. It's not much, but... well, it's not much," he says slowly as he leads her into the kitchen. He's a bit unnerved by her presence, partly because she's probably the prettiest girl he's seen in awhile, and partly because she is squinting at the messes around her in disdain. He nudges an empty beer bottle under the table as he turns around to face her. "Would you like a drink?"

Effie, however, seems transfixed by the relatively pristine picture frames that line the hallway wall. A smile graces her lips as she shifts her weight slightly and folds her hands in front of her. For a second, Haymitch studies her jutting cheekbones and the way her long, blonde hair settles against her shoulders. Her dress hugs her tiny figure like a bodice, but not as promiscuous; somehow, she makes simplicity and modesty raunchier than it is. She steals a glance at him as he stares, her ocean blue eyes lighting up and peeking out from under her sunhat, and his heart stops suddenly; terrified at the prospect of him just oogling at his new neighbor, he casts his eyes down and clears his throat. "Drink?"

"No, it's fine, thank you," she replies, pulling her attention back to the pictures. "You have kids?" she asks, pointing to one of the frames when he knits his brows in confusion.

"Oh, no. I've got no family around here," he tells her as he moves to where she stands. He sees the picture she must be referring to, and in nostalgia, he smiles — it's of his nieces playing football in the family compound when he still lived there. Glancing at the woman beside him, he says, "Those are my little brother's kids, Katniss and Primrose. Odd names, but beautiful girls. I haven't seen them in awhile."

"Those names are _belle_, just as they are," she defends. Turning her chin up, she looks at him and says, "I know we're not acquainted with each other, but may I ask why you don't see them often?"

He shrugs noncommittally, because though there's a strange comfortableness he feels with her already, he knows better than spewing long-winded problems with strangers. "Distance, I guess," he says after awhile. "That and the fact that the war has put some strain on all of us."

Effie only hums in response. Her fingers pick at the hem of her summer dress as she turns on her heels, and her face drops at the mention of the first world war. He would pry and ask how the war affected _her_, the French girl with blue blood coursing through her body, but he doesn't. He broods in silent anger as he leads her to the kitchen.

"Why did you come?" he asks her, fiddling with his half-drunken beer bottle. He had been drinking prior to her impromptu visit, and while her company isn't bad, there are things to forget and hangovers to nurse tomorrow morning. She doesn't pay any mind, though, and stares blankly at the peeling wallpaper until she realizes that she zoned out.

"You seem like a nice man, if not a bit lonely," she says nonchalantly, dropping her shoulders as her smirk fades away. "I don't know anyone in this town."

He doesn't mean to, but he bows his head and laughs heartily. Him, a good man? She's got another thing coming if she really thinks that way. "Effie, right? You'd better start looking for another friend to gossip with, sweetheart. I'm not good company to keep." He waves off whatever she will say next with a flick of his wrist and continues, "Besides, I like being a loner. It's easy."

"Everyone needs someone, Haymitch," she tells him, her tone high pitched and her cheeks flashing a fiery red. She clears her throat in an attempt to regain composure and says, "It'd be good, I think —"

"Woah there, little lady, you don't even know me," he says in disbelief, surprised at how forceful this woman is. "I don't know how things are in France, but here, it's awfully out of place to barge into someone's house and demand friendship. Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a nice girl. Go make friends with your other next door neighbor — you're probably going to have more luck there."

She purses her lips tightly. "I see I've overstayed my welcome."

"Vastly," he mocks, taking a swig from his drink.

"I'll see myself out," she says as she rises, collecting her things with her.

"Fantastic — _magnifique_!"

She mutters something that sounds like, "_enfoiré_" but he's not sure he knows what it means, nor does he really care. When he hears the door slam shut, Haymitch tends to his previously abandoned beer and drinks meticulously, purposefully. He can almost feel his fury radiating off him, his fists clenched tight and his nails digging half-moons into his calloused skin. He hopes he would never have to see that goddamn woman again, yet deep down, there's a part of him that yearns for her. And that night he dreams of her, with the blonde hair and blue eyes and a slim stomach and hips that sway with every step. He wouldn't admit it, but he can't say he wouldn't mind her coming back one more time.

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**A/N**: An awkward exposition, I think, but well, good ol' Hayffie picking fights with each other over pretty much nothing isn't _that_ bad. Don't forget to review!


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